


Every day of your life for as long as you live

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Sound of Music (1965)
Genre: 1930s, Austria, GOd I've never even been to Austria, I know I know it should be the other way around, Les Amis as children, M/M, Maria!Enjolras, Musicals, The Sound of Music AU, Von Trapp!Grantaire, but it isn't, not exactly a songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:54:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As a free citizen who was born neither a dog nor a cat, I downright refuse to answer to the signal of a whistle!"</p><p>"Tell me, Herr Enjolras. Were you this much trouble at the abbey?"</p><p>"Much more, Sir."<br/>*<br/>Enjolras is a young postulant of strong faith, whose untamed passion makes it hard to conform with the life in the abbey. Captain Grantaire is an unfortunate widowed retired officer of the Austrian Imperial Navy. He also happens to be the father of seven children, who are in need of a tutor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How do you catch a cloud and pin it down

**Author's Note:**

> I've been waltzing around this possibility for a long long time, since The Sound of Music is the first musical I ever fell in love when my dad made me watch it approximately 15 years ago, and it has formed my way of thinking as gravely as Harry Potter and Les Mis have done. I will never stop feeling emotional and dancing around and singing to my beloved songs whenever I get the chance!  
> I know that my matching the characters might seem a bit problematic to you, since the obvious way to go would be Grantaire as Maria and Enjolras as Von Trapp, but I have my reasons behind this perspective and I really hope it will turn out to be ok! The characters are, of course, either Mis-wise or Sound of Music-wise, extremely OOC, but I guess I'm taking some liberties here and there. For example Combeferre will be the baron friend of Grantaire, but under no circumstances will he be mean, or selfish, or romantically interested in him, so you'll see the differences when the times comes. Of course I'm copying the lyrics and the script at some points, I really hope it's not very cheap, I'm just doing the thing for fun in first place.  
> Also I've never been to Salzburg or to St. Peter's monastery, I've never studied Austrian poetry before (but I'm doing it now and I'm utterly fascinated), I don't know how convents work so I'm shit at all that, please don't hate me for my ignorance, and feel free to correct me and discuss everything you want to, concerning my writing!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!  
> Thank you so much for all your support at everything I do<3 Hope you'll enjoy that!

The Benedictine monastery of St. Peter in Salzburg has lived through countless mornings, dawns and twilights, quiet, holy midnights, days of glory, war, tranquility and pain. The monastery of St. Peter has seen, through the centuries, days sublime, that its mortal residents wouldn’t dare to dream of, even though the religious feeling of the grandiose Romanesque architecture and the breathtaking Rococo additions never ceased to upheave every believer’s – and non-believer’s – spirit. Yet still, on the blessed 1938 and despite the outlandish distance of those historical times, the monastery continues seeing days almost as divine and whimsical, Reverend Father Jean muses as he walks into the grounds of the abbey that once sheltered and embraced him under the wing of God, helping him guide other souls in His path.

Today the sun is shining brightly in the infinite blue sky, everything is blooming and, much to the monks’ astonishment, postulant Enjolras is missing. Again. Now, the brothers would probably show empathy to a young postulant or novice found strolling in the grounds on such a beautiful day. It has happened before, though not often enough to cause anyone trouble, but Enjolras is not a typical example of a postulant. No, Enjolras is most likely to be found in the library, devotedly studying the ancient, precious manuscripts and books (sometimes his own, and certainly not the most conventional titles possible).

The problem is that, while Reverend Father Jean has never doubted the faith and the devotion of the child, the Master of novices and the Master of Postulants have indeed doubted his compatibility with the nature of a monk’s life choices, and Reverend Father Jean feels obliged to admit that their fears are plausible.

“Tell me, Brother Mabeuf, what do you think of Enjolras?”

“He’s a wonderful boy… some of the time!”

“Brother Fauchelevent?”

“It’s very easy to like Enjolras, except when it’s… difficult!”

“He always seems to be in trouble, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly what I say,” Brother Javert frowns in exasperation. “Sometimes we lose him for hours, only to find him behind some outrageous, rebellious book! I daresay I am quite certain he curls his hair!”

“Oh, brother Javert!”

“I’ve even heard him singing in the abbey!”

“He’s always late for chapel but his penitence is real.”

“He’s always late for  _everything…_ ”

“Including every meal!”

“I hate to have to say it but I very firmly feel, Enjolras is not an asset to the abbey!”

Revered Father Jean holds up his hands, sighing gravely as he waits for the Brothers to stay calm. Brother Mabeuf steps forward, his old features flushing with an innocent smile of a boy. “I’d like to say a word on his behalf.”

“Say it, Brother Mabeuf.”

“Enjolras’ books fascinate me!”

“Well, they  _are_  utterly disgraceful!”

“He is gentle, he is wild…”

“He’s a dandy, he’s a child…”

 “He is charming…”

“He’s a terror…”

“He’s a clown!”

“Many a thing you know you’d like to tell him, many a thing he ought to understand!”

“But  _how_  do you make him stay and listen to all you say?”

Reverend Father Jean tangles his fingers and pursues his lips together in deep thought. “How do you keep a wave upon the sand?”

“When I’m with him I’m confused, out of focus and bemused, and I never know exactly where I am!”

“Of course, he always talks of these horrible  _terrorists_ …”

“He’s a demon!”

“He’s an angel!”

“He’s a  _boy_!”

The Brothers remain silent, and exchange uncertain, tired looks. They all turn to stare at the running youth, tripping over the cobblestone as he hurries to mass, a halo of golden hair swishing behind him. Reverend Father Jean sighs.

“How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand…”

*

“You may go in now, Enjolras.”

Reverend Father Jean raises his eyes from the dusty ancient book that’s standing on his desk, with that way his gentle, grey eyes have in penetrating Enjolras’ soul and making him burn with guilt. He wouldn’t have felt like that, in such an honest manner if it were for another Brother, but for their Father, his sentiments go beyond a mere sense of respect.

“Sit down, my child.”

“Reverend Father, I’m sorry! I really couldn’t help myself, I was so lost into the second edition of the…”

“I haven’t summoned you here for apologies.”

“Please let me ask for forgiveness!”

“If you’ll feel better…”

“Yes, you see, ever since I left society, the only thing that keeps me connected is my books…”

“Do you wish to remain connected, my child?”

“No, Father!” Enjolras rushes to shake his blond head. “I just… I was a very active member of the community before I was drawn to the sacred quest of delivering the others through my own deliverance! Before I came to you, it was my books that set me free!”

“Doesn’t the will of God set you free?”

“ _Of course_  it does! But it was my books, and my childhood in the village, near Bishop Muriel that made me believe with such dedication!” Enjolras raises his blue eyes guiltily, folding and unfolding his hands. “Which brings me to another transgression, Reverend Father.” He takes a deep breath. “I cursed.”

“You cursed?”

“Not during a conversation, but to myself. I know that we must forgive and don’t allow hatred grow in our souls, but I couldn’t hold myself, and I cursed Hitler.”

“Hitler?”

“Yes, Adolf Hitler. I was reading on the hill, and I cursed Hitler.”

“Only in the abbey do we have rules about postulants cursing,” Reverend Father Jean says quietly, a strange spark glinting in his eyes, and Enjolras is not quite sure whether the rules actually work that way.

“I… I feel things passionately, Father! I think, and I judge, and worse, I can’t stop _saying_ things wherever I am!”

“Some call that honesty…”

“Oh but it’s terrible, Reverend Father! Brother Javert made me kiss the floor when we argued, now I never obey when he makes me, I find it so humiliating but I  _know_ I have to be humble, though I promise I’m trying…”

“Enjolras,” Reverend Father Jean leans forward on his desk. “Now, as you said yourself, you were a very active member of the community. I understand that you were a very helpful one as well. Nevertheless, the generosity of your heart doesn’t make it a given that you were prepared for the way we live!”

“No, Father, but I pray and I try! And I’m  _learning_ , I really am!”

“What is the most important lesson you have learned here?”

“To find out what is the will of God and… and to do it wholeheartedly!” Enjolras can feel his cheeks prickling with the passion that usually accompanies his speech, his heart rate picking up and his skin sweating beneath his robes.

“Enjolras… it seems to be God’s will that you leave us.”

Enjolras feels shocked, his eyes opening widely as he throws himself up. “Father  _please_ don’t send me away! This is my home, it’s my family, it’s my life! The abbey is the only place where I can bring  _change_  to this world!”

“To help people out there is just as sacred as helping them from in here, my boy.” 

“But I’m trying, I know I can do this…!” He makes a last attempt to stand up, but Reverend Father Jean and his gentle, calm look, renders him quiet. 

“You’re a well-read man, Enjolras. It has come to my attention that not only do you have extensive knowledge in history, philosophy, language and mathematics, but you are also quite skilled in music.” 

“My parents saw that I acquired the essential education, Father,” Enjolras explains gloomily.

“Captain Grantaire needs a tutor for his seven children…” 

“SEVEN children!” 

“Do you like children, Enjolras?” 

“Well I don’t know, I grew up as an only child, and… Excuse me, Reverend Father. Captain?” 

“A retired officer of the Imperial navy. A fine man, and a very unfortunate one.” Enjolras frowns at the image of an authority he had never been fond of, but almost regrets his haste to judge when Reverend Father speaks. “He lost his wife when his youngest was born, delicate and sickly itself, and ever since he has been dealing with some trouble with the governesses.” 

“What kind of trouble?” 

“Everything will be explained when you get there. His children are now grown enough to watch after themselves, but he is in search of a tutor to help them with their lessons and their overall education. I am certain, my boy, that your admirable talents and ceaseless dedication shall be of immense help to the Captain.” 

All that Enjolras can do, is nod in defeat and pray that they will.


	2. My heart should be wildly rejoicing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Children, I must tell you all a secret. I need lots of advice, I have never been a tutor before!”
> 
> Jehan opens his innocent eyes widely. “You mean, you’ve never taught before?”
> 
> “I’ve never taught before!”
> 
> “Oh, in that case, you should teach us Catullus, the ones father won’t let us borrow from his library!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm tired and bored and I have to confess I've put no effort in this, but I guess it's obvious. Practically this chapter is copied out of the script. I know, this is ridiculous and cheating and ugh. But I've already told you: I'm writing/editing/call it as you will this story for FUN, merely to see written the same thing with different characters and slightly different dialogues, I need this in my life, so please don't hate me about it, and if it happens to give you any kind of satisfaction as well, then I'll be delighted!  
> I hope some things about my choice of character matching are explained in this chapter.  
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

Enjolras walks out of the convent with one single light bag in one hand and the guitar he hasn’t touched for such a long time in the other, his glance lowered and his shoulders slumped, and takes a minute to rest against the gate and fill his lungs with air that will hopefully help the tightness in his chest dissolve. He heaves a sigh, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to sort his thoughts into an order. He can’t bear the feeling of defeat, of being faced with the consequences and the effects of something he can’t quite control, with a decision that has not been his own. He surely understands that there was something that led Reverend Father to this decision, a way of knowing the will of God much better than himself and, in all honesty, Enjolras might have started wondering whether that decision was for the better. He has never regretted trying to dedicate himself to God, but maybe he had chosen the wrong way of doing so.

And suddenly a heavy weight is lifted from his chest and his heart flutters with anticipation, as he sees the green hills that touch the sky, the beautiful rooftops and the traffic in the lively, sunlit cobblestone streets, and he’s struck with a feeling of violent enthusiasm that vibrates through his body. It’s a sense of freedom he can’t possibly deny even though he hates the way it sounds in his head, almost as if God deprived him from this freedom which most definitely is not the truth, yet he still can’t help it, he is out again, he is active and he can read and speak up his voice, he can strive to make a change in this world, in _his_ world and in that of the others’, of those children and their unfortunate father, he can possibly give them something and contribute to their growing up in responsible citizens who will love God through everyone else, embrace freedom and teach it to their fellow men. Suddenly everything feels right, this is his destiny, this is the will of God, and Enjolras is a free man.

He bursts into the street, beautiful and fierce like an angel descended from heaven. It doesn’t matter that his vest and trousers are ratty, that his shoes are worn, because his hair shines gold at the light of the sun and his face is flushed with passion and anticipation towards a day that has already risen but not yet begun. A path full of adventure is lying before him, the wind is playing with his face and his soul is about to take flight. He’s not scared anymore, on the contrary he is free from the wealth of his parents he once tried to run away from, he is free from the scratchy monk robes and Father Javert’s scorn, and he is confident.

A captain with seven children… What’s so fearsome about that? A smile that had been trembling on his lips is now spreading over his face, a smile almost savage as he thinks of the dreams he can finally catch, of the courage he’s always been struck with, the satisfaction of finally showing his worth and having it admired and appreciated. He shall humbly serve this family, but in the end he shall be rewarded with his own generosity, with the change he will bring in their lives, and Enjolras is already making plans. He will be firm but kind, those children will look up to him, oh the joy! A leader and a friend, a companion and a guide, Reverend Father knew what he was deciding because this position is great for Enjolras, an ideal beginning of devoting himself to a higher cause! With each step he is more certain, the world can all be his and he’ll give them no chance but to agree and to believe in him because _he_ believes, he has faith and he almost wants to dance on the street with his guitar in his hand! Enjolras is going to show them, because strength lies neither in numbers nor in wealth, no _strength_ lies in nights of peaceful slumbers, and Enjolras has woken up.

His breath hitches on his throat when he stumbles in front of a huge, brass gate, still dizzy and infatuated, and has to swallow down the lump that appears on his throat.

It is a giant, sumptuous building that rises above the beautiful gardens, behind a marble fountain that makes water dancing in the air, and the worst part is that Enjolras is not even surprised… he’s _grown up_ in such a house.

Suddenly he feels uncomfortable, even angry. He knows he shouldn’t, there’s no reason to condemn a man he hasn’t yet met, a man of authority who has, nevertheless, served their homeland bravely. Enjolras comes from a wealthy family himself, he shouldn’t be feeling hostile against the heavy gate that he’s pulling with great effort to enter the gardens.

The difference is, Enjolras tried to escape from his wealth. By becoming a monk.

The reminiscence of a lifestyle he had denied to himself, of a luxurious, sterilized environment he had despised being born in, makes his insides twist uncomfortably as he sets his guitar down and rings the doorbell.

A well-refined man in a dark suit and a blank expression opens the door, and gives him a scanning look.

“Good morning, sir,” Enjolras does his best to be charming, smiling reservedly and offering his hand. When the man makes no effort to shake it, Enjolras explains: “I’m from the convent, I’m the new tutor!”

The man curtly shakes his hand. “And I’m the old butler.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how he feels about this. Questions start rolling in his mind. Is the butler paid well? Is he contented? Now he’s part of the working class himself, he muses, which is what he had always strived for, to gain his own living honestly while offering to others, to brush off all the privilege of his growing up in a rich house and pursue the meaning of life on his own. He follows the butler inside in what seems like a palace, with golden staircases and marble floors and everything that would feed so many wretched, unfortunate people in need…

“Please, wait here.”

He is left in a ridiculously enormous hall, nervously tapping the floor with his old, leather boot, before turning around and having a look. Something urges him to explore the place, so he finds himself walking as quietly as possible on the marble floor, every step echoing through the building, and opening a heavy, lustrous door.

It is a ballroom, he realizes gloomily, a heavily ornamented Baroque room, with dusty, glass chandeliers and beautiful colors on the woodcraft walls. They had a similar room in his parents’ house, he remembers with an embarrassing shudder.  He had been taught how to dance, but nevertheless he was the worst in every ball that they hosted. He hardly ever socialized, even though his mother made a considerable effort to set him up with one charming girl or another, and truth was that he was considered an eligible young bachelor. It had come as a shock to the young girls of the village, and to his parents even more, when he abandoned his revolutionary books and shut himself in an abbey.

“In the future you will kindly remember there are some rooms that are not to be disturbed.” Enjolras jolts up when a slam of the heavy door startles him, and his eyes open widely. He quickly walks out of the room, to be faced with an older – though not old enough to be the father of seven – man with a dark suit and darker hair, the only element on him which doesn’t quite match his elegant, if not slightly garish appearance, curly and wild sticking in all different directions, falling dangerously over a pair of tired, blue eyes.

“You do not look at all like a Captain,” is the first thing he boldly blurts out, and the man raises a sarcastic eyebrow.

“You do not look at all like a tutor.” The silence that falls is palpable and extremely awkward, and Enjolras immediately feels defiance against the Captain and the way his cold eyes seem to pierce through his skin. “Will you kindly turn around?”

Enjolras gapes incredulously. “Excuse me?”

A hint of a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes flashes on Captain Grantaire’s lips as he gestures with his fingers. “Turn around!”

Enjolras has to try hard not to hiss that this is not part of his commitment to the job, but he nevertheless turned around himself, assuming it was just an odd quirk of an unhappy man.

“You have to put another suit on before you meet the children,” the other man mutters thoughtfully.

“But I don’t have another suit…”

The glint in the Captain’s eyes feels mocking, and Enjolras has started feeling impatient. “You don’t have a…”

“Before we get to the abbey, we give our clothes to the poor.”

“What about this one?”

“The poor didn’t want this one!”

The smile that spreads over Grantaire’s face is sardonic, and Enjolras instantly hates him for it. “Excuse me, sir, but why would the children care about my clothes?”

“You can borrow one of my suits later,” is Grantaire’s only reply, and Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, but Grantaire seems like a rather talkative man. “I trust you will be better than all the governesses,” he sighs. “We’ve changed twelve this year.”

Enjolras frowns. “What’s wrong with the children?”

“Nothing's wrong with the children! It's the governesses!” Grantaire raises a bewildered eyebrow.

"Then what's wrong with the governesses?"

“They’re boring, and ugly, inexperienced with children and incapable of actually imposing any kind of discipline!”

Everything that the Captain says, feels more and more horrible to Enjolras’ ears, until he’s all riled up and digging his nails into his palms, trying to hold his annoyance in a way that very much reminds him his arguments with Brother Javert. “Well, it’s not their fault if they’re ugly! Beauty is just a combination of socially imposed standards and conventions people feel obliged to follow, and definitely not a sufficient criterion to judge labor, particularly the labor of a group already oppressed, that of women, unless one wishes to be downright objectifying!” It’s not like Grantaire himself is what would be considered as conventionally handsome, Enjolras thinks, outraged by his behavior, not for a moment thinking of it as an element more determinant and repulsive than his opinions, of course.

This once Grantaire says nothing, only pulls out a whistle from the pocket of his blazer and bringing it between his lips, before Enjolras’ astonished eyes, his pale blue glance always fixed on him in a way that Enjolras cannot explain but knows he despises. And next thing he does, Enjolras realizes with utter shock, trying to make sure he’s awake and seeing correctly, is to whistle.

The house pounds with steps and jumps and the thumping of feet, and the slamming of doors, and Enjolras braces himself momentarily, expecting canons to blow on a riotous barricade, or on an Imperial ship. Turns out it’s merely children of several ages, running down the stairs and half-marching, half-bumping into a straight line in front of his astonished eyes, from tallest to shortest, with a gap somewhere in the middle where, Enjolras realizes, after breathlessly counting, a child is missing. They stare back at him with serious, if not melancholic eyes, some of them blue and pale like their father’s, some others a warmer hazel.

“Herr Enjolras, here, is your new tutor.” The Captain looks distant, and Enjolras notices how his eyes don’t quite rest on any of his children for long, there’s a thin, invisible wall standing between them, and it presses tightly against Enjolras’ chest. He waits for a tender gesture, a hug, a friendly smile, or even a teasing one, like the ones he has mastered already at his direction, but Grantaire’s icy eyes remain unreadable. “When I whistle your signal you will step forward and say your name,” he says, leaving Enjolras gape in a state of utter shock, wondering how the butler, the housekeeper, the gardener, or whoever else is living in this damn house has not yet revolted against the Captains’ horrible tyranny over those oppressed, unfortunate children.

He’s snapped back into reality by an ear-piercing whistle, and a young boy with a delicate, timid face steps forward, soft auburn locks surrounding his pale face, not tall enough to be oldest, a dreamy glint in his warm eyes. “Jehan!”

Another whistle, a girl with dark braids and a fierce expression, not trying to hide a tear on her dress. “Eponine!”

A boy almost as tall as the two oldest, and wider than both of them, childhood still flushed on his cheeks, his knees scraped and dirty. “Bahorel!”

A tiny little bird with sunrays on her curls and frills on her dress. “Cosette!”

An adorable little boy bursts into the room, all flushed and disheveled, stops in the middle of it, looks around, disoriented, and quickly tosses a silly hat from his head, hiding it behind his back while returning to his position, earning a weary, if not impatient sigh from his father. “Bossuet!”

 A lanky boy with ginger hair and a pale face covered in freckles, steps forth. “Feuilly!” There’s something in his mature expression that Enjolras decides he likes.

The littlest tiny thing in the row steps forward and murmurs something ineloquent while sucking on his thumb. Now, Enjolras has never been one for tenderness, but something in this kid’s eyes makes him want to wrap him in his arms and suffocate him with affection. His father’s hollow glance is lit by a faint smile and, if Enjolras wasn’t so positively outraged, he’d have to admit it was refreshing. “That’s Joly,” he supplies, pulling the whistle from his lips and handing it to Enjolras with that awful way he has of looking at him. “Now, let’s see how well you listened.”

Enjolras stares at the whistle with shock, as if it’s about to bite his fingers off. “Excuse me, Sir, but I won’t whistle to the children! There was a reason they were assigned with _names_ …”

“This is a large house,” Grantaire sighs tiredly. “The walls are very extensive, and I will not have anyone shouting.” The whistle retires to Grantaire’s lips. “That’s your signal…”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow menacingly, and he can practically feel fire burning inside of him. "As a free citizen who was born neither a dog nor a cat, I downright refuse to answer to the signal of a whistle!"

“There is a pregnant pause. Grantaire slowly lowers the whistle from his lips. "Tell me, Herr Enjolras. Were you this much trouble at the abbey?"

Enjolras glares at him, wondering if he could pierce him with his eyes. "Much more, Sir."

Grantaire remains silent for a while. “I have some business to attend,” he eventually says, turning around to walk out of the room.

“Excuse me, sir,” Enjolras calls, and Grantaire stops midway, without turning to face him. “What’s your signal?”

The man turns around slowly, his eyes narrow and cold, and Enjolras hates the way lock with his own. “You may call me Captain.”

And with that Grantaire walks away, leaving Enjolras completely astounded with his absurd behavior. The children loosen up and eventually he clears his throat, running his fingers through his hair. “I need you to remind me of your names again, and tell me your ages,” he says, realizing that he’s never actually communicated with children ever again, and feeling horribly confused.

“I’m Jehan,” the oldest boy steps forth, his voice much manlier and intrepid than the softness of his features, “I’m 16, and I don’t need a tutor!”

Enjolras can’t say he feels offended at that. Maybe a little surprised, that bit is true, but soon he regains his composure at what reminds him of his own teenage years.

“Good to meet you, Jehan. I understand if you know everything you need to know already.”

“I’m Eponine,” the girl next to him mutters lazily, “I’m 15, and I’m impossible.”

“Congratulations!”

“I’m Bahorel,” the tall boy says in a croaking, not quite a boy – not yet a man voice. “I’m 12, and Frau Helga said I’m incorrigible!”

“Well, good for you, Bahorel!”

“Herr Enjolras, what does incorrigible mean?”

“It means… you want to be treated like a boy.”

That leaves Bahorel satisfied enough, and he nods with a smile as the small girl next to him smiles sweetly at Enjolras. “I’m Cosette, I’m 11, and your suit is the ugliest one I’ve ever seen!”

“You shouldn’t say that, Cosette!” Jehan shakes his head disapprovingly.

“But isn’t it the ugliest?”

“Of _course,_ but Herr Wertheimer’s was uglier!”

“I’m Joly!” they boy Enjolras doubtlessly remembers as Bossuet smiles triumphantly, trying to gather attention to himself while his siblings argue.

“You didn’t tell me how old you are, Bossuet,” Enjolras cracks a smile.

“He’s Bossuet, he’s 9,” he looks down to be faced with an innocent, freckly face. “I’m Feuilly, I’ll become 7 on Tuesday, and for my birthday I want new watercolors!”

“So you know how to paint,” Enjolras smiles at the amiable child. “That’s very creative!” He feels a tiny, bandaged hand tugging on his vest. The tiny boy is looking at him with a wide smile behind the thumb he’s still sucking. “You’re Joly, right?” Joly nods happily, pointing a spread palm, and then the bandaged thumb. “And you’re… six years old?” Joly nods again. “And where did you get that horrendous injury, my brave young man?” he takes the little hand in his own, bigger own, smiling fondly at the clumsily bandaged thumb.

“I got stuck!” Joly says toothlessly.

“You got stuck! Where did you get stuck?”

“In Bahorel’s teeth!” Joly smiles widely, and Enjolras is enamored.

“Children, I must tell you all a secret. I need lots of advice, I have never been a tutor before!”

Jehan opens his innocent eyes widely. “You mean, you’ve never taught before?”

“I’ve never taught before!”

“Oh, in that case, you should teach us Catullus, the ones father won’t let us borrow from his library!”

“No, teach us only maths, then tell father they must surely be in our _blood_!”

“Always eat father’s dessert, he hates dessert!”

“Especially when we have apfelstrudel! Father _hates_ apfelstrudel!”

“And hide the brandy, say it’s bad for health!”

“You should sing loudly while you take your bath, father loves singing!”

“And tell Toussaint to buy the cheapest groceries when she goes to the market, father hates unnecessary luxury!”

Seven kids have crowded Enjolras, tugging on his clothes and making weird sounds, and he’s on the verge of seriously panicking.

“Don’t hear a word they say, Herr Enjolras!”

“Oh? Why shouldn’t I, Feuilly?”

“Because I like you!”

Enjolras makes an effort to awkwardly ruffle the boys’ fiery hair, feeling particularly out of his depth among all these young, glowing eyes. Thankfully he’s saved from a plump, old woman in grey clothes, who bursts into the room with quick steps, leading the children at the door.

“Go out in the garden to play, children, your father’s orders, quick quick quick!” The lady turns around and offers Enjolras her hand, who shakes it, dizzy and confused. “I’m Toussaint, the housekeeper, Sir! You must be dreadfully tired, let me take you to your room!”

Enjolras can do nothing but follow her on the stairs, until she feels something moving in his pocket and he stumbles on a step, letting a high pitched, terrified scream as a frog jumps out of his pocket.

“You’re very lucky, Sir,” Toussaint mutters as she climbs another step. “With Frau Favourite it was a snake.”

He rests against the staircase, exhaling sharply, pallid and sweaty. The seven children from devil are staring at him with serious, hollow eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, Enjolras has to admit that he is scared out of his mind.


	3. For fate to turn the light on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excuse me, Captain, but have we forgotten to thank the Lord?”  
> Grantaire’s impatient and slightly irritated look gives Enjolras tremendous satisfaction, as he and the children wrap their fingers together on the silk tablecloth. “From the bottom of your heart we thank you, for the equality in our home, the privilege to share a meal such as this. Amen.”  
> “Amen.”  
> “Herr Enjolras, are you trying to guilt trip my children into not enjoying their food?”  
> “No,” Enjolras shakes his head pleasantly, chewing on his first bite of steak. “I merely wish to thank them for the precious gift they let in my pocket earlier today!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am with another chapter which is nothing unique or imaginative and it's obvious I didn't even make an effort with adapting the dialogues but I'm having real fun writing it, especially when I'm tired or a bit down. Btw please don't hate my Montparnasse, I mean you're perfectly allowed to hate him but I had a very hard time deciding who was going to be who because of various reasons, and I just wanted sassy Jehan and seductive Parnasse in 16 going on 17, so yeah. Parnasse is kind of an asshole and Jehan is rich, and Grantaire doesn't pay enough time to care for his children. I haven't yet decided whether Parnasse is going to be a Nazi or not, your suggestions is exactly what I need.  
> Ferre and Courf will show up in the next chapter yay!  
> Opinions and constructive criticism is always more than welcome!

Enjolras knows he’s going to be late for dinner before he even hears Captain’s last whistle for little Joly. He furrows his eyebrows, trying to make himself presentable for the occasion, having only that one suit left, and feeling ridiculous for investing any time and energy in his appearance at all. To make up for the fashion choice that Captain Grantaire finds convenient to disapprove, he makes an effort to tame his wild curls in front of the mirror, but with no positive results whatsoever. Eventually he huffs, trying hard not to curse when he finds a worm in his shoe, and rushes to the dining room where the entire Grantaire family is seated and ready to start their meal.

“Good evening children,” he says, heading to the only empty chair on the table.

“Good evening, Herr Enjolras!” they reply in unison, their voices an innocent symphony, until he touches the chair and he jumps a meter high in the air, his butt pierced by a pine cone.

The children all keep their poker faces, serious and unaffected by his reaction. Only their father raises a dark eyebrow. “Enchanting little ritual!” he grins sarcastically. “Something you, um, learned at the abbey?”

Enjolras shoots a rapid glance at the children, none of which dares to raise their eyes from their plates to meet with a look a bit horrifying to belong to the angelic face of their tutor. “Uh, rheumatism,” he replies noncommittally. Grantaire has already caught a potato with his fork, but that doesn’t really bother the young tutor. “Excuse me, Captain, but have we forgotten to thank the Lord?”

Grantaire’s impatient and slightly irritated look gives Enjolras tremendous satisfaction, as he and the children wrap their fingers together on the silk tablecloth. “From the bottom of your heart we thank you, for the equality in our home, the privilege to share a meal such as this. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Herr Enjolras, are you trying to guilt trip my children into not enjoying their food?”

“No,” Enjolras shakes his head pleasantly, chewing on his first bite of steak. “I merely wish to thank them for the precious gift they let in my pocket earlier today!”

“Excuse me,” Grantaire asks coolly, “what gift?”

“Oh,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders. “It’s meant to be a secret between the children and me.”

“A secret,” Grantaire repeats disbelievingly. “In that case, why don’t you keep it such, and let the rest of us eat?”

Enjolras smiles charmingly, in a well-rehearsed manner, lifting his fork to his mouth. “It was so brave of you,” he addresses the children, all of them frozen and waiting for their condemnation, “to step forth in such a way, and guide a person in need of conversion into a new environment! I really appreciate your effort!”

Joly is crying with his thumb in his mouth. Cosette has her fists pressed against her lips and is trying to swallow her tears, and soon half of the children are sobbing uncontrollably, with their elbows deep into the sauce in their plates.

Grantaire slowly lowers his fork and knife. “Herr Enjolras,” he sighs wearily, “is it to be in every meal, or only in dinner time, that you tend to lead us all in this wonderful, new world of indigestion?”

“Oh it’s alright, Captain,” Enjolras gestures cheerfully, “they’re just happy!”

The children have almost exploded when Grantaire raises his eyes with a small smile. “Children, tomorrow I’m going to Vienna!”

“Oh, not again father, no!” they start groaning through their tears, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“I’m bringing with me…” a dramatic pause. “Uncle Combeferre and uncle Courfeyrac!”

The sobbing turns to protesting turns to cheering. Enjolras finally sees what this is about. It’s a habit. Captain Grantaire leaves home and lives his life, away from his burdens and responsibilities, and instead of actual emotional support he gives them pretentious discipline lessons appropriate for monkeys. Enjolras can see it all. He drinks and dances, completely absent from any kind of political activity, meeting women whom he definitely does not intend to marry and bring a mother to these poor children. Grantaire raises his glass, full of wine, with a smug expression on his face, and Enjolras feels disgusted.

There is a dull thud on the window. The Captain is way too caught up in his drinking and eating. Young Jehan asks to be excused. Enjolras watches, his lips pursued together and his eyebrows knit tightly, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut the steak.

Grantaire notices. He the only thing he notices.

*

The night is so beautiful that it makes Jehan’s heart take flight. People sometimes laugh at the way he phrases things like that, they call him romantic and naïve, but he doesn’t really care. Nothing will stop him from describing their garden using a comparison to a breathtaking painting of Poussin or Lorrain, the soft mist of the night sky over the glassy lake, to the breath of nymphs and dryads that play amongst the ancient, imposing trees. And then, in the middle of it all, a young man, almost a boy, a dark haired Adonis of the most extraordinary beauty, for whom endless poems should be written and kept dearly into a secret bookcase, so that no one can ever get the privilege to unfold the divine mystery of Montparnasse’s charm but Jehan himself.

He’s there, fresh and alluring like a rose, yet there are thorns in his dark, glinting eyes, there is a streak of moonlight between his crimson lips, teeth of pearl as he smiles and invites him, spreads out his pale, almost transparent hands to wrap his fingers around his own. His skin is cold, his hair black and shiny, he’s almost like a sculpture, and Jehan’s heart flutters as he buries his head in the crook of his neck. He smells a bit nauseating, smoke and a cheap cologne, but it is _his_ scent, and Jehan is losing his mind because of it. His suit is stylish and fitting in all the right places, hugging the curves of his hips and the broad lines of his chest, yet the fabric is fraying in the elbows and behind the knees. Jehan doesn’t mind. He knows there’s much more than money in the mysterious creature that is Montparnasse.

“What handsome shoes you’re wearing!” Jehan gasps in awe, gently pulling Montparnasse away to assess his captivating appearance.

“I… borrowed them from a friend,” Montparnasse explains casually.  “Of course I must pay him for his service.” He sighs gravely. “Too bad I haven’t any money at this point…”

“Oh, don’t worry, father has enough money to help you if you’re in need!” Jehan smiles sweetly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You are such a brave, kind boy, Jehan,” Montparnasse lets an infatuated sigh, taking Jehan’s delicate hands into his own.

“You were throwing pebbles on the window, weren’t you?” Jehan can’t help but smile playfully.

“Of course I was,” Montparnasse winks. “How else would I get you off your balcony?”

Jehan chuckles timidly. “I’m no Juliet, Parnasse!”

“That’s right,” Montparnasse nods seriously. “You’re two years older, and much more beautiful!”

Jehan playfully nudges Montparnasse’s ribs and walks away. “I don’t believe you!”

Montparnasse raises a sharp, dark eyebrow. “Flower, hasn’t anyone else told you how beautiful you are?”

“My father has. But all fathers do, he doesn’t count.”

Montparnasse smiles softly, brushing a soft strand of auburn hair off his forehead. “Well, your father generally thinks in a quite… peculiar manner.”

Jehan frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Take his political convictions, for example.”

“But Parnasse, my father _doesn’t have_ political convictions.”

“Exactly what I say!” Montparnasse throws his arms in the air satisfactorily. “You can’t _not_ have political convictions in our days! The world is changing with every minute that passes!”

“Don’t worry about father, he was a big naval hero. He was even decorated by the emperor!”

“I don’t worry about the Captain,” Montparnasse assures him. “It’s his son I worry the most about!”

“His son!”

“Yes, flower.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jehan grimaces. “It sounds so frail… and innocent.”

“Oh?” Montparnasse smirks seductively. “And aren’t you innocent?”

“I don’t know,” Jehan flutters his fair eyelashes, leaning forward and tracing his fingers over Montparnasse’s blazer, feeling his breath hitch. “Am I?”

Montparnasse chuckles charmingly. “But you are only a boy!”

“A boy!” Jehan gasps. “But I’m sixteen!”

Montparnasse holds up a hand, giving Jehan that crooked smile that makes him go weak on the knees. The younger boy holds his breath as he firmly places his hands on his shoulders in a guiding manner.

“Your life is still an empty page, baby, waiting to be written on.” Jehan hears carefully, his eyes wide open in vivid interest. “You are 16 going on 17, and baby it’s time to think!” He spreads his arms and tilts his head on the side, turning around as Jehan has to jump forward a step or two to reach him. “Fellows will fall in line, and ladies will do so too, better beware, be canny and careful, they’ll offer you words and wine, and you shall be unprepared, timid, and shy, and scared!” He grins smugly, yet that’s not the way Jehan can see it, not when everything inside him aches for Montparnasse’s next word. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do!” The grin spreads over Montparnasse’s pale, charming face, and something tightens inside Jehan. “I am 18 going on 19, I’ll take care..." A dramatic pause. "Of you!”

A wide grin of infatuation and gratefulness spreads across Jehan’s eyes, but in the back of his head he still knows that this isn’t how things are exactly meant to work. There’s something in Montparnasse’s words that keeps him hooked, and something that makes his cheeks prickle and his heart pound ominously in his ears. He blames that on his feelings for the man, and he’s willing to comply to his every command, yet Montparnasse has to realize that Jehan is much more capable than what he’s willing to believe.

He takes his hand and quirks the corners of his mouth, staring at him sweetly behind long eyelashes. Their fingers tangle together and Jehan leads the way, a slightly disoriented Montparnasse clutching on his blazer and rushing to follow.

“I am 16 going on 17, I know that I’m naïve.” He shrugs his shoulders apologetically, winking innocently as he clutches on Montparnasse’s collar, taking him by complete surprise, and pulling him close to his torso. “Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and _willingly_ I believe!” His eyes glint dangerously as he surprises Montparnasse, giving him a push on his chest and pulling him away, running across the garden before the older man is able to follow him. “Totally unprepared am I, to face a world of men… Timid and shy and scared, and innocent as a rose!”

Montparnasse finally reaches him, and wraps his arms around his waist almost anxiously. Jehan turns around in his embrace and teases him, playing with his tie. “I need someone older and wiser, telling me what to do!” He leans forward, running his finger across the man’s cheekbone, the cord of his neck, his chest over his shirt, feeling his breath hitch. “You are 18 going on 19. I’ll depend…” their lips are parted by a thin streak of mist, little foggy clouds that they swallow off of each other’s lips. “On you…”

Jehan leans forward, kissing Montparnasse, his young face a mask of tranquility and desire, his angelic eyes shut, as Montparnasse gasps in shock for the first few seconds, and eventually leans into the kiss, pulling Jehan closer.

The first raindrops fall thick on their cheeks and clothes, signifying the departure of a summer full of excitement, and the agony of young love. In between their laugh and kisses, they run inside the white, picturesque kiosk, amidst the patterns of colorful, beautiful flowers. The rain can’t get them there, not as it pours more and more violently, neither can the howling wind. They’re soaked to the bone, hair plastered on their heads and clothes sticking in the most uncomfortable places, yet right now this is the last thing on earth that matters. The light of the lampposts near the lake comes dim and fuzzy, matching the state of Jehan’s thoughts. Their lips meet again and his heart explodes a thousand times, before Montparnasse pulls back and quickly climbs on his bike, cycling away, leaving Jehan with a wide, intoxicated smile on his lips.


	4. These are a few of my favorite things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t like the thunder,” murmurs Feuilly, his fair features scrunched up in a grumpy expression. “He should learn how to negotiate.”  
> “Neither do I,” Enjolras smiles sympathetically, impressed by the boy’s extended vocabulary, and then it hits him. “What do you like, Feuilly? Think of what would make you happy!”  
> Feuilly’s freckled face scrunches up even more, until excitement glows on it. “Fans!”  
> “And you, children? Go ahead, think of things… things that would make you happy!”  
> “Top hats!”  
> “Bicycles!”  
> “Ancient poets!”  
> “Mhmm, chocolate!”  
> “Dragons!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reality is. I normally wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have continued this story, not when January and February are generally shit and loaded with exams and I don't even have inspiration for my other WiP. But. The Sound of Music literally is my life, and they play the musical in Greece and I went to see it. I had really low expectations bc the songs would be translated and no one is the original cast, but it was beautiful and spirit lifting and had me in tears, so here's the next crap chapter. Please excuse my writing, there are exams and I have no motivation whatsoever. If anything in terms of characterizations or portrayal seems wrong, please discuss it with me! I'm incredibly sorry for keeping you wait for so long. You're all wonderful and I hope you have an amazing day <3  
> So. Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.  
> Here comes the sap.

“Help this man believe in his children.”

Enjolras opens his eyes and raises them from where his folded hands are resting, on the foot of his bed. He’s just about to finish his prayer when he hears thrumming on the already rain-stricken window.  There’s a storm going on outside, which Enjolras had always found quite peaceful, if not inspiring in a rather Romantic manner. The fierce pattering on the window pane, and the sight of the raindrops joining each other helped him place his thoughts in order, somehow lifted his spirit and set him free. That worked ideally, of course, up to the point that the gentle downpour turned to a riotous cataclysm. Still, it didn’t bother him, not in the least.

That, until his window jolts open, and a nefariously soaked, hunched figure, sneaks into his room, dripping water all over the shiny wooden floor.

He recognizes the damp, flowery scent, and the timid tapping of his careful steps. Enjolras heaves a sigh. “And Father, please do help Jehan know that I’m a friend, and that I wish to help him.”

“Are you going to tell on me?” the boy gasps in a voice that cracks in all its premature, manly glory, shivering in the middle of the room, cold and truly upset.

Enjolras hushes him, without meeting his eye, and eventually nods “Amen.” He calmly turns around to face him. “Now, _how_ did you climb up here?”

Jehan shrugs his shoulders, feeling the first interior storm fading away. “We do it all the time to prank the tutors and governesses. Bossuet once fell and hit his head, but Eponine can make it with a whole jar of spiders!” A childish spark of mischief lights up on his face.

“ _Spiders_!” Enjolras gasps in horror before he’s able to retain his composure. He can’t help from noticing the little sinister smile that flashes on Jehan’s angelic face, and eventually he exhales and rests, exhausted, against his closet. “What have you been doing out there?” 

Jehan throws the window a sneaky glance, as if there’s someone out there eavesdropping. “I was taking a walk, and I didn’t see the time, and then it started raining…”

Enjolras peers into the depths of his wardrobe, not really having much to browse through. Fortunately he has been provided with a second pair of soft, elegant pyjamas, the estimable cost of which makes him cringe. Still, not only is he wearing a similar pair, but Jehan also happens to be dripping everywhere, so at least it turns to be of some use. “Were you taking a walk on your own?”

Jehan rushes to nod, only for his pretty head to freeze midway, his doe eyes wide open, until eventually he shakes it guiltily.

“Come on,” Enjolras guides him. “Go in the bathroom and put these on until we can dry your clothes.”

The boy looks ready to cry with gratefulness as he takes the pyjamas and smiles gratefully. “You know, Herr Enjolras, I might be in need of a tutor after all!”

Enjolras cannot help but smile back. “I highly doubt any of us ever stops needing to learn things.”

“Do you have any books I could borrow?” his face lights up.

“Of course, Jehan,” Enjolras grins. “Are you interested in history and philosophy?”

“A lot,” the boy nods fiercely. “Only I like poetry best.”

“As a matter of fact I do believe I have a book or two that would be of interest to you!”

“I would love to see your books,” Jehan nods excitedly, and Enjolras’ heart warms up, noticing himself shining dimly somewhere behind these glowing eyes.

When he goes into the bathroom, Enjolras attacks the duvet, vigilant against any unpleasant surprises, but he’s met only with a soft mattress and smooth, clean sheets. He’s about to collapse on them and call it a day, when the storm roars outside, and Joly and Cosette appear at the doorway, looking positively terrified.

He’s way too tired to do this, and children had never been his strong point in first place, so he doesn’t really know how to comfort little ones at the prospect of a mean, scary rain exploding in the sky.

“We’re scared of the storm,” little Cosette confesses hesitantly as Joly sucks his thumb. They’re both quite adorable – a word that Enjolras had never thought would actually embellish his vocabulary one day – in their long, fluffy robes and messy night hair – as messy as Cosette’s silk locks can be – and he finds it impossible to deny them the shelter and affection they’re obviously seeking for.

Thunder bursts once again and he stands up, spreading his arms wide open so that they can jump into his embrace and snuggle there. It’s quite a peculiar sensation, to have those tiny creatures that barely reach past his waist, with their arms around his legs, clinging on him like dear life itself. They feel warm and innocent and they feel like family, and Enjolras finds himself leaning into the human contact more willingly than he’d measured.

He can faintly remember those moments of his childhood. His relationship with his parents had never been an ideal one, yet, until he reached a certain age – a nonetheless quite young one – his mother’s arms were open to shelter him from thunders. They were cold and bony but they smelt like mothers do, or at least how they did in Enjolras’ world. His chest tightens uncomfortably at the realization that these children have not had a safeplace to turn into, no one to soothe their fears away and wipe the fever off their foreheads in rainy nights.

Just then, he hears the pattering of feet in the corridor, and less than a breath later, two other figures appear at the door of his room. It’s Bossuet  and Feuilly, both looking relatively calm until the next lightning bursts into the sky, when they climb on the bed and hide with their little siblings under the pillows. Enjolras chuckles softly, uncovering Feuilly’s freckly face. “Do you think the other two will come too?”

“Oh no,” Bossuet shakes his head confidently. “Big children are not scared!”

“Don’t be so sure,” Enjolras tries to hold back a smile, pulling Cosette’s pillow away. Eponine and Bahorel are already standing on the doorway, pale and silent as a nightmare. “Were you scared, big children?” he asks teasingly.

“Of course not,” Eponine snorts dismissively.

“We just came here to see if _you_ were!”

Another thunder gathers the seven of them on the bed, snuggling close to each other.

“Why does the thunder do that?” Joly murmurs, hiding his huge doe eyes in Enjolras’ shirt and muffling his voice on his chest. “It’s making my heart run!”

“Well,” Enjolras improvises, “you don’t have to be scared. The thunder is angry with the lightning, and the lightning is arguing back!”

“I don’t like the thunder,” murmurs Feuilly, his fair features scrunched up in a grumpy expression. “He should learn how to negotiate.”

“Neither do I,” Enjolras smiles sympathetically, impressed by the boy’s extended vocabulary, and then it hits him. “What do you like, Feuilly? Think of what would make you happy!”

Feuilly’s freckled face scrunches up even more, until excitement glows on it. “Fans!”

“And you, children? Go ahead, think of things… things that would make you happy!”

“Top hats!”

“Bicycles!”

“Ancient poets!”

“Mhmm, chocolate!”

“Dragons!”

Before he knows it, Enjolras is singing, seven pairs of glowing, astonished eyes staring at him as the lightning brightens the room up through the drapes and darkens it again. Cosette is the first one who smiles and gives him her hands and, before he knows it, he’s swaying around in the room with an eleven year old girl, focusing on the things that he loves and completely dismissing all of his anxieties before the children even do so.

Cockades on waistcoats and sunshiny steeples  
A banner that’s waving on barricades of peoples  
Ink on a parchment that gives your tongue wings  
These are a few of my favorite things

Bahorel and Jehan are doing a ridiculous imitation of a couple bowing at each other before starting to dance in a ballroom, their pompous expressions funnier than their actual movements.

History written on yellowish pages  
Books that survive and sing through the ages  
The sun rising sluggishly over the hills  
These are a few of my favorite things

The storm is roaring wildly outside and Bossuet is swirling little Joly around, both of them giggling ferociously until they trip over the foot of the bed. The kids are adding up their own ideas, each voicing a wish that makes their hearts swell with joy and anticipation.

Mornings that wake you with coffee and strudels  
Roses and garlands and ladies with poodles  
Clouds on a meadow that turn into sheep  
These are a few of my favorite things

Eponine who had been snorting and huffing up until then, succumbs to Feuilly who drags her by the hand and makes her dance around the room with their younger siblings. Eventually Enjolras catches her with the corner of his eye cracking a smile, and he’s pleasantly overwhelmed –

The door storms open and everyone freezes on their place, in the middle of a dance move or a brotherly joke, and Enjolras sees careless eyes growing wide in fear at the sight of the children’s father standing on the doorway, his pale eyes blank and awfully cold, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The kids grow wings on their ankles and run into a line parallel to the bed, in their nightgowns and pyjamas, looking worried and ashamed for a trespass Enjolras fails to notice.

The Captain looks rigid, unmovable.  He’s clad in a forest green nightrobe, his dark hair messy and his face unshaven and shadowed.

“Shouldn’t you let poor Herr Enjolras sleep?” he asks sarcastically. “Or maybe he should let _you_ sleep.”

Enjolras gestures at them apologetically. “They were scared by the thunderstorm…”

Grantaire ignores him, turning to his oldest son. “I didn’t see you after dinner.”

Jehan lowers his head. “Yes, father.”

“Where have you been?”

The boy seems at loss as he exchanges glances with his tutor. “I…”

“Jehan merely came seeking for one of my books.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh? And what book would that be, Jean?”

“Uh, it was one… on French Revolution!”

Grantaire snorts before turning to Enjolras and seizing him with his glance. “Bedtime is to be strictly observed in this house.”

“For you too, Captain?” Enjolras asks coldly. There is a snigger from the children, probably Bossuet’s, cut short with one of his father’s piercing glares.

“Bed,” he simply hisses and, when the children do not stir from their struck positions, Enjolras hurries to clear his throat.

“You’ve heard your father, children, hurry up, off you go.”

Seven pairs of bare feet thump on the wooden floor almost in agony as the children disappear like a storm. Enjolras himself would much rather flee the room as well on this particular moment, not because he’s in any way intimidated by the children’s father, on the contrary, mostly by himself and the possibility that his tongue will falter to some ungodly path. He finds himself failing miserably to understand the man he’s working for, even though he can now see clearly his own cause and purpose. These children are in terrible need of someone to protect and guide them, considering that their own father is absent most of the time, only to return with his foul, unsolid and unnecessary strictness, and a distinct scent of alcohol. Enjolras has had enough, and feels disgusted.

“Tell me, Herr Enjolras,” the man smirks faintly, observing the room before settling his unsettlingly cold eyes somewhere behind him. “Do you, or do you not have difficulty remembering simple instructions?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, feeling his pulse picking up with anger. “I do not, sir.”

“What exactly do you teach these children?” There is a short pause where Enjolras attempts to speak, impatient and upset, only to be dismissed with the Captain’s upheld hand. “I hope you teach them maths,” he snorts somewhat teasingly. “If _I_ could do that, your... charming presence here wouldn’t be essential.”

“These children are in dire need of an education that shall exceed the field of maths,” Enjolras says sharply before he can control himself and, other than with a faint flush that spreads over his pale cheeks, nothing reveals remorse for the informality.

“Are they,” Grantaire mocks a genuinely interested expression, fishing in one of his pockets for a cigarette, which he brings between his lips and lights, much in Enjolras’ disgust, who the smoke stuffing up against the cage of his chest and suffocating him. “Do tell, Herr Enjolras, in what matters do you plan to be a good, Christian missionary and enlighten my blinded children?”

“In the matters of understanding themselves and the world around them and _feeling_ its pulse,” Enjolras almost roars. “Of striving for a change from their privileged position, of accepting and of speaking up. I want to teach them to believe fiercely in what they must do, to find purpose in it,” he knits his jaw tightly. “Someone has to do this, sir. You, an officer of the naval army of all people, should know that.”

Captain Grantaire’s expression does not seem changed, at first. His faint smile, always cynical and sarcastic, curled around his cigarette, sends an unpleasant shiver down Enjolras’ spine, and he absolutely despises it. Yet it’s as seconds pass, drowned in a despicable silence that has followed his own words, that reveals a certain distortion in his eyes, a heavy fog downing upon them and somehow managing to soften the way they interlock with his own. He looks pale behind the twirling, silver smoke, and for a mere second, Enjolras feels sick.

“You’re naïve,” he murmurs eventually through his smoke, his eyes narrowed as if he’s trying really hard to look through him. Enjolras opens his mouth to protest but the Captain holds up a hand. “No, I do not mean to offend you. I apologize if I did. That has nothing to do with your age, I do not wish to appear old, decorated and accomplished, and wax poetic of all the things I’ve seen that you haven’t. It’s not that. I admire you. I admire how you look straight into the sun and think you won’t get burnt as if you’re Apollo himself. But I’m Icarus, sir, and this is my house. They’re children and I’m their father. Their life didn’t start up full of inspired religious words and convictions worthy of a student riot. It started with the loss of their mother. My youngest one never even heard her voice sing to him. It was wrong, and it was realistic and, do you know the worst part? It was _real._ I do not wish my children to ever be deceived about what life really is and how they must treat it in return.”

Enjolras is at a complete loss for words as Grantaire takes the smoked cigarette between the pads of his fingers and turns to leave. “Good night to you, sir.” And with that he walks away, not sparing him his pale gaze anymore, and Enjolras stands there until he hears his steps fading in the corridor, facing the agony of breathing.


End file.
